


Wrong Number

by riyku



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 15:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17368520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riyku/pseuds/riyku
Summary: There are things that Sam notices, now that he's decided to.





	Wrong Number

**Author's Note:**

> Written for salt_burn_porn for killabeez's prompt _booty call_
> 
> Goodness, I am rusty. Many, many, innumerable thanks to my very dearest lily, for the cheerleading and the read through and for gently kicking me out of bed when I inevitably get too squirmy (and for reminding your neurotic narrator that this should be quick and dirty, just like weecest). Sure do hope you enjoy.

It had been Patty in Boise. Then Darcy outside Omaha. Delilah in Duluth and it hasn't taken Dean long to find himself another safe bet, now that they've crossed a state line again. Another girl a phone call away. Her name is Sindee and she spells it out to strangers so there won't be any mistakes. She'd been sucking on lollipops the three times Sam's seen her, had slid him her spare with a smile that says they both knew she was about to put something better in her mouth. She lands somewhere in between goth and grunge and has better taste in music than Dean. She's smart, going by the books Sam snooped in her backpack. Nice as well. Sam supposes they've all been nice. Kind in their own way, with a smile for the kid brother who's always around, who mumbles through his hello's when they sneak in through the kitchen door or basement door or window and hides his blush in a downward glance and a hoodie zipped all the way up to his chin. 

So they've all been nice enough, if Sam had to pin a word on it, and they've all shared a few of the same flaws, too. An inclination to pick up the phone. A weakness for a pretty boy with a hoarse voice capable of making bullshit sound like honey , who says words such as tomorrow or next week or next month with so much sincerity it makes them think he understands the concept of staying. They fall for Dean's grin and his cracked wide eyes, his hands and the midwestern accent he sometimes takes on. The one that Dean knows sets them up and knocks them all the way down.

Sam can't blame them. He's been around Dean his whole life and hasn't found the right kinda bulletproof. And although Dean hasn't knocked him all the way down yet, Sam's been on his knees for years.

\- - -

This place isn't too bad. It's got air conditioning and Sam can plug in the toaster and the microwave at the same time without something blowing up, he's not scared to walk barefoot across the carpet, and the phone cord stretches all the way to the bedroom from the kitchen, so at least Sam doesn't have to _see_ it when Dean gets an itch he wants scratched. He follows the snaking phone cord from beside the fridge, down the hall to where it disappears under the bedroom door and he can't see it, but he can hear it. The smirk in Dean's voice when he really slathers it on, the purr when he says what's up, laughing like it's an inside joke, the creak of the closet door because this hook up apparently calls for a clean shirt.

The lollipop is sour apple this time, Sindee’s lips stained green from it. Dean makes a joke about liking the Smiths more and more everyday since that's the album cover on her t-shirt, and she rolls her eyes at him and snorts. It's a real sound, sarcastic and Sam appreciates that a lot, moves her to the top of a mental list he's been half-keeping, slips her down a notch and tries to not call it jealousy as she drags Dean toward the bedroom.

Sam sprawls on the couch, turns the television up louder to drown out the sound of it when his brother's headboard begins banging against the wall. Something twists in his stomach and something else spreads across his chest and he wants to put a hand down his boxers every time Dean gets a touch loud, and all three of those things are as wicked and twisted as the monsters his daddy hunts.

\- - -

It's morning, and their dad has left a fifty dollar bill beside the coffee pot, which means he'll be gone for a week at least, and that they'll be moving on more sooner than later and getting Sam registered for school here probably isn't worth the ink it'll take to forge a parent's signature.

Dean's in the shower and he takes fucking forever in there and Sam barges in, figures the cut of cold air is enough of an announcement. Both feet over the threshold and fingers on the toothpaste before Sam checks out the figure of Dean, indistinct behind the cloudy semi-opaque shower curtain. His shoulder is moving all juddery and it looks like it has nothing to do with rinse and repeat. Sam backs out, decides that a piss off the back steps might be the better part of valor.

Dean's still in the shower when Sam comes back in for the trigonometry textbook he'd ganked from his last school. He settles onto the front porch in an old weathered rocker, and opens the book to a spot generally in the middle. He doesn't want to fall behind, school or not, keeps looping back to the quiet mutters from his brother anyway, like a busted tooth you can't quite stop finding with your tongue.

There's a big difference between fuck, _Sam_ and _fuck_ Sam, come to find out. Sam wishes he'd been listening closer.

\- - -

There are things that Sam notices, now that he's decided to. Call it fairytale thinking. Call it a flashlight shining at a different angle. Call it Dean, absently pulling Sam's shirt down after it's ridden up while Sam is pretending to sleep at night, allowing his knuckles to skim along Sam's stomach for a beat. Or the thoughtful way Dean will play with his bottom lip, staring as Sam shovels through his second bowl of cereal, wiping milk off of his sloppy chin. Or how the virginity jokes at Sam's expense have become more and more scarce. Call it tousled hair and double-dog dares and how all of Dean's very best smiles have always been reserved for Sam.

Sam has spent his life learning Dean. He can rattle off Dean's reaction to dozens of scenarios, knows when he's cheating at cards or is about to throw a roundhouse from the tilt of his head or the quirk in his mouth. He's been trained to pick up obscure patterns. His greatest fear is losing Dean, followed distantly by obscurity, a puzzle he can't pick apart. Right now Dean, with his light touches and flickering glances and careful orbit around Sam, is a sidewinder of a puzzle leading down and down with nothing but fog at the bottom. It's an unfamiliar thing for Sam. As terrifying as it is thrilling.

\- - -

Another night, and Dean is on the couch with his knees spread wide, a bottle of beer loose in the curl of his fist. The television is mostly static and Sam isn't paying it much mind, splitting his attention between the way the glow from it lights up Dean's cheekbones and the hollows beneath them and some minor McCarthy novel that's a touch too biblical for his taste. Not nearly bloody enough.

Sam gives up on the book and stretches his legs out, toes brushing againt Dean's thigh and he swears he feels Dean's muscles bunch in response, fingers twitch around the bottle. More fairytale thinking, maybe. The gory, original Brothers Grimm kind. 

"This sucks," Dean says, flipping through channels, even more static the higher up they go. He drops a hand to Sam's ankle and leaves it there. "We can't even get scrambled porn on this thing." He turns and Sam is trapped by his stare in the way he always is, warm all over with his lungs feeling shallow and tight. "Hey, remember that time I walked in on you in that hotel room? Where was it?"

Toes digging in, Sam doesn't blink, just chews on his lip and says, "Macon. And I remember. Like you'd ever let me forget." 

It had been summer in Georgia. Heat like a living thing and Dean had spent the week they were there up to his neck in the motel's swimming pool. He'd smelled like chlorine and tanned dark under all the freckles and it had been there, melting under a slow-moving ceiling fan and simmering inside of their shared claustrophobia that Sam had realized that he wanted his brother in a biblical way. Kinda like the McCarthy book. 

"Sam," Dean says, stammering a little like it's the first time he's wrapped his mouth around the word, and Sam reaches out, jacknifes himself to take Dean's beer from him, and Dean flinches back some, like Sam had something other than underage drinking in mind. So perhaps Dean has spent his life studying Sam as well.

"Yeah, Dean?" And he's still staring, wrapping his lips around the bottle and watching Dean chew on the inside of his cheek, acutely aware of Dean's touch on his ankle. Straight down to his fingerprints.

Dean doesn't go on, only clears his throat and shoots to his feet and marches toward the phone, quick footsteps down the hallway and a quiet click of the door and the soft murmur of Dean's voice.

Sam can't hear what Dean is saying. He doesn't need the specifics. He waits. Learns to breathe again. Waits some more and thinks about how it's Wednesday. Just some mundane Wednesday and they're barely over the border into North Dakota, and it's warm here for fall, and he can feel the warmth Dean left behind on his ankle, a piece of him soaking into Sam's skin and he could take more of it, if he wanted to. If Sam asked, Dean would give it.

The pipes whine and now Dean is in the shower, because apparently this hook up calls for clean skin _and_ a fresh shirt, and Sam moves out onto the porch. More air out there. Darkness, and he's out there long enough to hear the hiss of tires on pavement, to wonder what Sindee's reaction would be if she found Sam sitting like some Hatfield in the rocker with a rifle across his knees, a real possibility in a family like his, giddiness at the thought like carbonation rising to the top that he swallows back down.

It's a grape lollipop she hands over and Sam unwraps it, twirls it against his tongue then gives it back to her. If he's gonna do this, he wants to taste sweet. "It was a wrong number," he tells her, and it comes out flat. Nevermind the small pang he feels when her face drops then twists into something shocked, like two plus two has only now added up to four. 

"But--" she starts, and Sam cuts her off, scalpel clean.

"It's always been the two of us." He shrugs, does some nano-second soul searching and discovers that he only cares about one thing, then doesn't wait to see her reaction. It doesn't matter. 

Sam finds the only thing that does matter laying on his bed, arms folded behind his head and ankles crossed. Long and lean and it's as if the curve of his upper arms was created with the destruction of Sam's better judgement in mind.

"Yeah, Sam?" Dean begins to sit up as Sam edges in on him but goes back down as Sam barely touches his chest, and Sam's thoughts skitter across that levitation game. Light as a feather, but in reverse. 

"Wrong number," Sam repeats, because he's looping again, this time on Dean's small, confused pout and how much he wants to lick it away, and the flush that's turning the tips of his ears pink, and Sam's run through dozens of scenarios, puzzled and predicted and none of them have played out quite like this. With Dean's eyes growing brighter and the stuttering catch of his breath.

"Tell me to stop. You have to be the one to say it," Dean says, and it's deliberate, like a line repeated from a book or a very specific memory, and it doesn't make sense. Sam's the one who's sinking down onto the bed and touching Dean's cheek, knuckles on his jaw as he tucks in beside him like they used to do before Sam got too old, and Sam's the one sliding his leg against Dean's until Dean uncrosses his ankles and makes room for him, like always. Like always. And Sam's the one tipping his face up and giving Dean the chance to back away.

"Don't stop."

Dean doesn't flinch. Not this time, and Sam still tastes candy coated. Sticky lips as he kisses his brother for the very first time, and it's so impossibly soft, like the sigh Dean lets loose. Softer than he'd imagined and a better fit, like the end of an inevitable trajectory.

Dean smells like soap and his hair is slightly wet, and Sam's fingers slip into it and find their place on the curve at the base of Dean's skull, and now Dean is kissing him back, tongue in his mouth and his hand is slipping around Sam's neck and he's holding on tight, and they're gonna have to talk about this eventually, fill in some big fucking blanks, but that's for later, because Sam's mouth is kinda full and so is his heart, and for the first time in a very long time, he doesn't feel like a busted up boy with a butterfly knife.

"Fuck. _Sam_ ," Dean says and rolls him onto his back, covers him completely with his body and starts to move, hips pressing in and in and pushing Sam's legs further apart.

It turns out Sam had been right about door number two, and the shattered, breathy noises Dean is making as he speeds up and grinds down harder are better than all of Sam's guilty eavesdropping. Less porn star and more desperate. Much more real. His hands are curling around Sam's shoulders and his face is buried in Sam's throat and Sam's grateful for his recent growth spurt that put him at nearly Dean's height. All those nights full of aching bones suddenly worth it to be able to hold all of Dean like this. The strength he's gained enough to roll his hips up to meet his brother, tangle a leg around him to keep him close.

Dean's shaking, or perhaps it's both of them, and he reaches between them to try to get at Sam's dick, nothing but a glancing touch through Sam's hand-me-downs and Sam's gone, arching up against Dean and grabbing at whatever he can reach. Legs locked around Dean's middle and his hands twisting uselessly in Dean's shirt. It's fast. Fucked up and messy but that's okay. Nothing about them has ever turned out clean. Not a single thing.

Dean falls onto his back and Sam rolls toward him right away, finds a wet patch on Dean's jeans and wants to put his mouth there, make it wetter and pay better attention next time. In a minute. He needs to catch his breath first.

"Was that...grape?" Dean asks and licks his lips.

Sam's giddiness returns full force and he giggles, a laugh his big brother would give him shit over if he wasn't currently reaching up under his shirt and plastering his hand over Dean's chest. 

"I'll explain later," Sam tells him. Dean's smile is another good one. Sam would set fire to whole cities to make sure it stays. "Next time, call me instead, okay? I promise I'll come running."

 

\--end

thanks for reading!


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